From the Brothel to the Cemetery
by Juliette Louise
Summary: A series of sometimes humorous vignettes about Zevran Arainai and his Grey Warden. Prequel to "Thick As Thieves".
1. Introductions

Introductions

They were most of a day from Denerim, heading south on the old Imperium roads when she approached. Lena heard her before the human did, a shrill woman hollering and running without rhythm toward them on the cobbles. Alistair heard her a beat later, and stopped instinctively, his hand coming up to warn her as though she did already know.

The woman was calling one word over and over, of course.

"Darkspawn! Darkspawn!"

Always the knight, he ran ahead. Sighing, Lena followed. If it was treachery (as she'd come to expect) better it should find them now than when they were at camp, and the sun was low in the sky.

When she caught up to Alistair, a disheveled, red-headed woman was speaking rapidly and barely-coherently about darkspawn attacking her wagon.

"...and it's right over there!" She finished at last, breathing heavily, a hand over her heart. Alistair drew his sword and flashed her a meaningful look. He was suspicious as well.

Ahead, a wagon lay upended, clothes and other personal items strewn around, but there was no evidence of darkspawn or any other attackers. Lena surveyed their surroundings. They were within sight of the road. There was no cover to speak of, only a few scant bushes and trees on the grassy plains. No thugs or mercenaries behind rocks or hostile mages over a rise.

If the woman noticed their reservations, she didn't comment.

"It's over there!" She pointed to the wagon yet again, as though it were possible not to see it. Lena drew her sword and Dar'Misu, stretching her neck and dropping her pack. As they approached the site, the woman bolted, and they let her. Lena had expected a double-cross, of course, but not this. No army of mercs or darkspawn loomed ahead, but a single elf.

He wasn't much taller than her, wiry, blonde, angular features like most Dalish, but his facial tattoos were from no family that she'd seen before.

"You can't get good help these days," he said with a familiar, clipped accent, and time seemed to slow as he drew his weapons.

The assassin fell on Alistair first, bringing one foot hard into the knee-joint in his armor, then striking him savagely in the cheekbone with the pommel of his sword.

Snarling, Lena charged him. He turned to face her just in time for her to drive her iron-plated shoulder into his relatively unarmored solar plexis. Alistair was reeling, and she turned the fight away from him as best she could, hacking wildly at the elf, trying to throw him off-balance.

The assassin clicked his tongue against his teeth in seeming disapproval, holding against her onslaught with seeming ease. He took an unexpected step toward her as she struck again, and their weapons tangled overhead. She was close enough to feel his breath on her face. He smiled at her, and, inappropriately, she realized how attractive he was.

Then his foot snaked out and pulled her legs out from under her. The assassin's off-hand blade was coming down for her soft throat when Alastair pulled him over in a flying tackle. Alistair was easily twice his size, but by the time Lena was on her feet again, Alastair was only holding a clump of blonde hair with his shield-hand and the assassin was circling him again.

They met him together this time. In Denerim, a life-time ago, her mother told her that a well-disciplined elf warrior moved like "grace itself". This had never seemed more true. And despite being an elf herself, she was having difficulty keeping up. Alistair aimed a long, sweeping stroke at neck-level (a mistake, of course, but there wasn't time to tell him about economy of movement and short, choppy strikes that the assassin couldn't turn against him).

Time slowed again. The attacker leaned back impossibly far, and the enormous weapon fluttered harmlessly past his face. As it did, his right hand reached up and closed on Alistair's wrist, using the movement's momentum to hold his sword arm against his own body. Then the left hand came up and drove the slim dagger into the tiny gap in his armor underneath his pinned arm. He simply pushed Alistair's limp form out of the way.

But now her attacker had only one weapon, and she pressed the advantage, trying not to think of Alistair slowly bleeding out while they fought. The elf used her moment of contemplation to get off a well-placed kick to her kidneys, but she caught him across the face with her elbow while his footing was still awkward.

And now, of course, his left side was relatively undefended, and she struck at him with her off-hand weapon, the Dar'Misu passing within an inch of his throat. Their blades met with bone-jarring force. He was a great deal stronger than he looked. He lunged forward, pivoting at the hips, then pushing against their locked blades and throwing her backwards.

She put one foot behind her to steady herself, but instead ended on one knee in front of him with his blade firmly in her shoulder. If she hadn't slipped, he would have taken her sword arm cleanly off. As it was, his blade had been stopped by the bones of her shoulder.

Howling, she plunged the Dar'Misu into his bare thigh, and wrapping her injured arm around his knees, toppled him.

Twisting the blade only slightly as she pulled if free, Lena stood, shivering, over him, and kicked his bloody sword from his hand.

...And then, hesitated.

"Alastair!" she shouted. "I...alright," he muttered.

He'd gotten the dagger out of his ribs and was putting pressure on the wound. At her feet, the assassin was awaiting his fate with surprising calm. He cocked an eyebrow at her when she looked back down at him. His wound was bleeding prodigiously, pooling out on the ground underneath him.

"Who are you? Who sent you?" She said breathlessly, holding her elbow tight to her body and hoping her arm wouldn't just slide off as she stood there.

"Ah, so I am to be interrogated." He said, and she finally placed the accent. Antivan. It was strange to hear it from an elf, since Antivans were generally quite swarthy but elves looked more or less the same everywhere.

"I am Zevran Arainai, and I was sent by the Antivan Crows, though I was hired by a very taciturn fellow called Teryn Logain." That surprised her. She had expected a prolonged threatening and torture session before every piece of information.

Lena's mouth opened and closed reflexively a few times before she spoke again. "Why are you telling me this?" she said suspiciously.

"Because I enjoy living, mostly. But also because they did not buy my silence, though in truth I did not offer it, as such." She clutched her elbow tighter. Now that the battle was done, her wound was beginning to radiate pain all the way down to her fingertips. Her whole arm was slick with blood.

By the wagon, Alistair had struggled to his feet. Apparently his blades weren't poisoned, at least.

"What in Andraste's _tits_ should I do with you now?"

Her potent swearing didn't phase him. "You seem to get up to interesting things. You meet interesting people and then you kill them. I'm game to tag along, if you are."

"You must think I'm royally stupid."

"I think you're royally tough to kill. And utterly gorgeous. Not that you'll respond to simple flattery. But there are worse things in life than serving the whims of a deadly sex goddess."

Lena actually took a step back in surprise. Alastair was coming up alongside. They had to end this quickly before she passed out.

"But won't you just try to kill me again?" Her voice sounded desperate. Alastair was looking at her as though she were completely deranged.

"No. I have failed rather spectacularly at my assassination attempt, and so my life is forfeit. That is how it works, I'm afraid. In my position, the best thing to do is to serve a new master, one who can assist me when the Crows come hunting me. And they will."

"You can't be serious!" Alistair's voice cracked. "We _cannot_ take the assassin with us!"

"Alistair..." she turned to face him.

"He'll slit our throats while we sleep! He'll poison our food!"

Zevran piped up from the ground, matter-of-factly. "Incidentally, it would be a good idea to be vigilant about one's food in general, Grey Wardens. You have many enemies."

"Yes, _thank_ you, Mr. Hired Killer." Alastair was not amused.

"Alastair, I think he's being truthful. The first time someone sees us alive after today, the Crows will hear of it, and they'll be a bounty on his head. He has no reason to kill the only people with a reasonable chance of protecting him..."

She looked back over her shoulder at the prone Zevran. "...But no preparing food. Ever."

"Of course." He spread his hands in polite acquiescence.

"Lena..." Alistair growled. They hadn't exactly seen eye-to-eye on every issue thus far, but she could be extremely persuasive.

"Will you be the one to kill him, then?" Alastair looked uncomfortable, clutching the hole Zevran had punched into his torso mere moments ago.

"Maker's Balls," he sighed, and hauled Zevran to his feet. Lena pulled some bandages from their discarded packs. She tossed the assassin one.

"Camp is only over the next rise. We have a healer with us but it would be best not to bleed out before we get to her."

The walk back to camp was not pleasant. Alastair unhappily supported the limping Zevran, and she walked alone, her shoulder bandaged but still hemorrhaging. Wynn rushed out to meet them on the road, and half-carried her back to camp. She lost consciousness briefly as Wynn treated her, and woke only when her war-dog, Sir Digby, started licking her face to alert her that dinner was ready.

Lena sat up painfully.

The sun had long set, but a healthy fire burned and the smell of food was overwhelming.

"Wynn!" Alistair called. He was sitting my the campfire in wool trousers and a white undershirt. The assassin was also sitting my the fire, across from her, his elbow resting on one bent knee. The other leg was thoroughly bandaged, probably also by Wynn. He was still wearing full armor, but he'd at least gotten all the blood off his boots.

Wynn's form emerged out of darkness, her white hair almost glowing against the light of the fire. Her kind face was crinkled with a worried smile.

"So! You live after all!"

Lena realized she was also stripped down to clean trousers and an undershirt. Wynn seemed to follow her train of thoughts. "I washed your armor and trousers in the stream. The shirt was done for, I'm afraid. Honestly, I can't believe your arm is still on." She shot a stealthy look at Zevran, who was abruptly interested in the state of his fingernails.

"Thank you, Wynn. I don't know what I'd do without you."

"Think nothing of it, Warden. Shall I get you some dinner? Sir Digby pulled some rabbits out of the forest for us."

Wynn seemed to enjoy mothering her, and in a way, she appreciated it. Her own mother had been dead for some time.

"No, thank you. I'll manage."

It occurred to her that the camp seemed a great deal more peaceful than usual.

"Where is Morrigan?"

"Ah. She's built her own fire over yonder."

"Yes," Alistair chimed in. "And I think I'll join her."

Alistair stalked off with one backwards glance at the assassin. Wynn stared uncomfortably at the ground as he stormed off.

"Not everyone approves of your choice of companions, my dear."

"Yes, I'd noticed that."

"Well...do be careful. I'm going to bed. I'm too old for these late nights. No lifting anything with that arm!"

Wynn disappeared into her tent. Digby was busy chewing an enormous thighbone from...something, so she gathered that he had already eaten. Lena rose stiffly, and went to the fire. She handed a plateful of rabbit stew to the assassin and got one for herself. She sat. He was looking at his plate like he'd never seen food before.

"What is this?"

Again, it was jarring to hear an Antivan accent from a fellow elf. His speech was clipped and precise like someone with professional training in the language.

"Dinner," she said dryly, around a mouthful.

"You are planning to feed me then?"

"I'm not planning on starving you, if that's what you mean."

"Ah. I had expected at least a few hungry days is all. Thank you, Warden. You are a very forgiving woman."

"I am apparently the very soul of charity."

The Grey Warden finished eating and limped off to the stream without a backwards glance. It was utterly shocking how quickly the mind could switch gears. Mere hours ago he was intent on killing her. Now, he was more interested in bedding her. Ah well. Life seemed to move at a brisker pace in Ferelden.

She returned. Without armor, the curves of her body were more apparent. Small even for an elf, she was unusually dark-complected. All the city elves in Denerim were smaller and darker than the willowy Dalish, he was finding.

She put a hand to her side and sat again, painfully. "I'm pissing blood, I want you to know."

Ah yes. A well-placed kick to the kidneys would do that.

"Forgive me, Warden. I was possessed of a temporary but admittedly long-lasting insanity."

She sighed. "How is your leg?"

"Your mage treated me. It will be good as new in a few days, I am sure. Thank you for that, as well."

"Which, the stabbing, or healing?"

Oh, she was sharp, in more ways that one.

"Both. I have made good use of this lesson in humility."

"How long until your Crows come after us?"

"Three months at most. They move quickly but we have few contacts this far afield."

"How many?"

"Five or ten, I'd say."

"Are they all as good as you?"

"Certainly not."

"Then we may have a chance. As long as they don't catch us unawares, which is admittedly what assassins generally do. We'll camp away from the roads and try to keep our heads down for awhile."

She was strategizing. It was delicious.

"I wouldn't worry, Warden. May I call you Lena?"

"Please."

"I wouldn't worry, Lena. I am a remarkably light sleeper. Even as a friend of the Crows it was rarely advisable to sleep except in short naps. Killing your fellow initiates was not only not frowned upon but actually encouraged."

"Why did you join?"

She was apparently very unfamiliar with both assassin's guilds and Antiva in general. "I was sold to them at the age of seven. They got quite a deal, from what I understand. The whorehouse where I was born believed more money could be made from the Crows than from pimping me. I was only slightly insulted at the time."

"That is...unfortunate."

He deflected her. "But not surprising. People like us are not the product of comfortable upbringings, yes?"

She stroked her dog's enormous skull, carefully neutral. "Indeed."

Then, suddenly, she sprang up.

"I'm going to sleep. I hope you won't take it personally that I've told Sir Digby to keep an eye on you."

"Who?"

"Sir Digby," she nodded at her enormous, slobbery war-dog. "Named for a famously impoverished wandering knight from Denerim. He weighs 250 pounds and can crush a deer's spinal column with one crunch. Sleep well, Zevran."


	2. Interpersonal Relations

Interpersonal Relations

"It's getting worse, you know." Alistair was crashing through the trees towards Morrigan's camp. Morrigan was sitting cross-legged by a tiny fire, mending some clothing. She closed her eyes and counted quietly to three before speaking.

"What is?" she sighed.

"Lena and Zevran. Very bad."

Alistair had developed a recent obsession with every action the assassin undertook and every word he said. _Did you see how he looked at me? Did you see how he looked at her? What did he just say about Wynne's bosom? Why does he have one of those in his bag? How many knives can he possibly have under there?_

Morrigan looked up with obvious disinterest. "What are they doing?"

Alistair crossed his arms and shook his head. "They're sparring."

This was not the answer she was expecting. A long moment of silence passed.

"I'm unconvinced of the calamity status of this event."

"Come and see." He was waving her towards the woods.

Morrigan pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Come on! Humor me!"

"Alistair..."

"I'm serious."

Morrigan rolled her eyes so hard they almost came right out of her head. "All right. If it will get you to _let me be_ for the remainder of the night."

They followed the path to a clearing the party always used for practice when the camped outside Denerim. Around them the forest was dense with underbrush, but in the natural clearing all the plant life had been burned away by spellwork or dug up by Lena's dog.

Morrigan and Alistair approached. Sneaking up on Lena or Zevran was more-or-less a physical impossibility, but luckily they didn't seem interested in their approaching companions.

They were both unarmored, but were definitely using real weapons. Lena was wearing only trousers and a laced cotton shirt, her doublet discarded by the edge of the clearing. Zevran was shirtless. They both wielded twin Crow blades, long, thin daggers with a slight curve. Perfect for close-quarters assassinations or filleting fish, Zevran had claimed.

The full moon lit the clearing well, glinting off the weapons and Zevran's light hair. Lena lunged at him suddenly, her right dagger in a reverse grip and her left angled up at his ribcage. He turned her aside with seeming ease, but exclaimed something surprised-sounding in Antivan with a short laugh. Their blades crossed in short bursts, then they fell away, circling each other intently, looking for weaknesses in form. They were close enough to touch at times; Zevran's technique relied a great deal on close-quarters fighting.

Lena, taught not at some academy but by a collection of career criminals and rogues, was still refining a style that had previously looked less like the fluid grace of an assassin and more like bar-brawling. But Zevran's instruction was paying off. His strikes slid past her but did not land. Her body twisted around his and away, and the assassin smiled, clearly pleased with her progress.

Abruptly, Morrigan knew what Alistair was on about. This wasn't just practice, it was some deranged version of foreplay.

"Well," she whispered, "What is it that you would have me do, exactly?"

Alistair gestured helplessly. "The man is a professional assassin. He's an expert poisoner and has at least two knives in each boot. He talks about murdering people like some discuss sports. Isn't this _bad_?"

Morrigan shrugged. "He doesn't look overly homicidal at the moment."

"Of course not. He's too busy looking...lascivious."

"Are you certain that it is only Lena's _safety_ that concerns you?"

"Certainly! What else would concern me?"

Suddenly the clearing was quiet. The duelists seemed to be taking a break. Morrigan looked up from their conversation. Lena acknowledged the interlopers with a smile and a nod, then sank into a crouch, panting. Zevran turned, sheathing his weapons. He was slightly flushed and shaking out a kink in his neck. He approached them.

"Oh, Warden," he said, gesturing at Alistair's swords (omnipresent since the assassin had joined them) with one hand and pulling the sweaty hair off the back of his neck with the other. "You want to join in, yes?"

Morrigan couldn't resist a cackle. "No, I don't think he does." She elbowed Alistair hard in the ribs. "I'm not sure he would know what to do."


	3. Past and Presents

_Alright, this instalment is a touch more serious. Also, please forgive any formatting problems. I have a linux box and am having serious compatibility issues with the document manager. :(_ _Reviews light a fire under me to write faster. _

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Past and Presents

Camping in the Brecilian Forest was truly a nightmare. The Dalish had somehow managed to carve a path into the endless miles of lush, verdant hell, but their party was on a much tighter schedule and less well-equipped.

Dealing with Zathrian's little band reminded him of the brief time he'd spent with the Dalish. Nothing had changed. The Dalish still did not appreciate his incredible lack of reverence for, well, _anything_, or his worldly cynicism. They seemed to frustrate even the Grey Warden, who'd actually been raised amongst elves.

And then, of course, there was the issue of the horrifying undead wolf-creatures that infested these woods. They had decided on a watch at night. Lena at dusk, himself, then Morrigan until dawn, with Wynn, Alistair, and Leliana on alternate nights. And the Warden's war-dog, of course, who was in a constant state of agitation over the creatures' encroachment on his territory. He patrolled the borders of their camp constantly, sniffing the air warily and pissing on every tree.

He hated it. In more civilized country he could disappear into the woods on sleepless nights. Here, there were always eyes on him, and the continual threat of death and dismemberment in the forest.

So Zevran lay awake in his tent, thinking about the dirty songs the whores sang to drown out all the other things that inevitably rose to the surface at night when one was alone. He listened to the hooting of owls and rustling of little forest creatures, the fire crackling, and Lena pacing relentlessly. Her steps were quiet, but he was an assassin, one of the Crows' best, and every squeak her armor made and every sigh from her lips sounded like an explosion in the still night.

Eventually, he gave up.

He pulled on a tunic and pushed aside the flap of his tent. She turned her dark eyes on him, crouched by the fire, hands out to the warmth. Her facial tattoos looked bolder in the firelight, and her face paler. She was beautiful, of course. The only mark who'd ever captured_ him_ was a stunning elf woman. Sometimes the gods smiled on him in strange ways.

"I'm sorry, Zevran." She whispered. It took him a moment to realize that she believed she had woken him. It was strange for someone to care about his needs in a non-sexual capacity.

"It is nothing, Warden. A restless night for you as well?"

"Hmm," she said noncommittally.

She'd been withdrawn since they met the Dalish. He came to sit by the fire, trying as ever to ignore the ravenous woods around them.

"Can I ask you a question?" Lena said, sitting on her heels.

"Of course."

"Did you know your mother?"

It was not the question he had been expecting. They'd never much spoken of personal things. They spoke of niceties, gossiped, bragged relentlessly about famous lovers and victims, but...the real things were always withheld. Like they said in Antiva City, "_Tell your tales to everyone, tell your secrets to no one_." Still, they would all probably die soon regardless, so what harm could it do?

"No. She died giving birth to me. I was raised by the other whores in the brothel until I was sold to the Crows."

He saw pity in her eyes, but thankfully she only nodded. "When I was young my mother told me tales of the Dalish Clans. Wild and free in the wilderness, away from the constant lechery and oppression of men. The truth doesn't exactly hold up. They are as small and fearful as the city elves ever were. My mother was swallowed up by that wretched city, but still I think I prefer it. I am not well-suited to the wastes."

"Ah, nor am I, Warden. I miss Antiva City terribly, even with its crowds and death and raw-sewage. My mother must have felt this same urge. She was a Dalish who left her clan for the...how you say... "hustle and bustle" of city life."

Lena nodded, smiling. "I'd supposed that. You look Dalish. It's in your hair and the shape of your face."

He didn't know if she'd meant it as a compliment but it still sent a tiny thrill through certain areas.

"Actually, the only thing I had of hers was a pair of Dalish gloves. They were buckskin, lined in rabbit fur. Embroidered with golden thread. I hid them under my pillow in the whorehouse, and looked at them when no one was around, wondering about the wild Dalish. When I was sold to the Crows I had no opportunity to retrieve them. It is one of my very few regrets."

"Dalish gloves," she said absently, staring into the fire, then snapped her fingers, startling him. Lena crossed the camp and starting rooting around in her things. Zevran was confused, but Fereldeners were occasionally very difficult people to fathom. He waited patiently.

Presently she returned, holding something and looking very satisfied with herself. She thrust something into his hands and sat, anticipation obvious on her face. They were gloves. Deerskin gloves with gold stitching, lined in rabbit fur. Dalish make.

"What is this?" He managed to say.

"Dalish gloves! Just like your mother's. I found them today in the woods."

He was silent. He squeezed the gloves tighter between his hands. For a strange moment he was a child again, sitting on his thin mat while the other children slept, listening to the...sounds...from the rooms beyond and wondering what life outside the walls of the city was like.

"A gift," she said. "Please, take them." He looked up, meeting dark, serious eyes.

"No one has ever just..._given_ anything to me before. Thank you. I am touched that you would think of me."

Lena shrugged, but she was smiling. "It's nothing."

He cleared his throat. "Go to sleep, my Warden. I will take the watch."

Lena disappeared into the darkness, but his thoughts followed her.


	4. Sleepless

Sleepless

It was pissing down rain when they finally left the Brecilian Wastes, but Lena's mood was lightening regardless. The business with Zathrian had been weighing her down, and of course the ever-present fear of inheriting his curse through a bite or a scratch wasn't appealing either.

Now Zathrian and his curse were gone, and the forest was ending almost as abruptly, giving way to the gentle plains of central Ferelden.

"Let's stop for awhile, shall we?" Wynne said from behind her, and she knew it wasn't really a question. In the last few weeks they'd been mauled by wolves, stepped in bear traps, shot full of arrows, attacked by the semi and entirely dead denizens of an ancient temple, fallen off of high places, and almost drowned at least once. She'd gotten the worst of it, as usual. Undead horrors and angry wildlife flocked to her like moths to a candle.

Lena dropped her pack with a sigh.

"Yes, let's."

Everything hurt. Wynne's skill with strange herbal concoctions took the dangerous edge off of an injury, but the deep bone pain always lingered, a reminder to _get out of the way_ next time.

They were becoming very skilled at setting up camp very quickly. Zevran and Sir Digby disappeared back into the woods in search of dinner while Morrigan attempted to make a fire in the cold drizzle. Everyone else erected the tents.

It was nightfall when the hunters returned. Zevran made some sort of Antivan curried stew. He was wearing a hooded cloak to keep out the rain, and when he handed her a plate all she could see was his sly smile underneath the shadows. It made the hair on the back of her neck stand up, in the best possible way.

Something had changed between them since the night she'd given him the gloves. There had always been flirting and innuendo, but abruptly they'd gone from appraising glances and dirty jokes to _when can we possibly get a moment alone to do terrible things to each other without someone trying to kill us?_

The whole party ate in silence, too tired or relieved to make much conversation. Even Sir Digby was uncharacteristically sedate.

"I'll patrol the area now if it means no bloody watch later," Alistair said, standing and stretching. Sir Digby discovered some untapped reserve of energy and started bounding around at his feet.

"I'll come as well," Leliana said. "It will be nice to walk without getting one's foot stuck in brambles and rabbit-holes and traps."

From the fireside, Morrigan muttered, "You're both mad. I'll be in my tent if the Darkspawn come to devour us."

Zevran pushed the hood of his cloak down and his dark eyes skittered across her face briefly. He had a line of purplish bruises down one cheekbone and a split lip. Not even he could outmanoeuvre everything.

Eventually Wynne and Morrigan went to bed, leaving the elves, as ever, to greet the stars alone. Once, their people had been largely nocturnal, before their subjugation to the will of humans. Lena liked to think that her inclination towards night time contained vestiges of the old way.

Zevran, however, didn't seem to actually ever sleep _at all._ The party woke every morning to him in full armor with breakfast ready and went to sleep each night with him stalking the woods or sitting by the fire.

"Well, Warden, are you in better spirits at last?"

"Aside from the throbbing."

He gestured to the ground in front of him, then stripped off his gloves. "Take your armor off, and sit."

An interesting development to be sure.

Lena stripped down to an undershirt and breeks, and sat in front of him, her heart beating so hard she could feel it in her hands and face. It was the closest she had ever been to him without a sword in her hands.

Zevran was a skilled archer, and as such had incredibly strong fingers, but he knew exactly where to apply pressure and where to be gentle. He started at the base of her skull and worked down into her shoulders, smoothing out three weeks worth of painful knots and a great deal of tension she hadn't realized she'd been holding onto. She could feel his warm breath on her neck.

"I thought you were only good at hurting people."

"Pleasure and pain are two sides of the same coin, my dear."

She wondered if Zevran felt her shiver. If he did, he said nothing.

"Alistair and Leliana could be back at any time." She said unconvincingly, leaning into his touch.

"Let them see."

"We could go somewhere...my tent is nice this time of year."

"I'm not done with you yet!" He laughed, working down her spine.

-

Despite Zevran's impressive reputation, he was both a gentle and attentive lover. Her attempt to be discreet was repeatedly ruined by his ability to wring all manner of strange noises from her. And the pile of their armor in front of her tent.

"Do they make women like me in Antiva?" She said when her mouth wasn't busy.

"Oh no, my Lena." She was pleased to hear that his words came out in a gasp. "There are no other women like you anywhere!"


	5. The Mark, Part I

_This segment will be in three parts, so stay tuned. Also, thank you so much to everyone who has reviewed. It is the best motivator there is!_

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The Mark

He walked like a man who was very sure of himself, and very comfortable in Brothels. She thought he might have been an elf, or maybe just short—under the cloak it was hard to say. In any case, he was definitely foreign. And foreigners usually had money.

Of course, Sanga honed in on him immediately.

She pulled up a chair at the table where he was nursing a drink, and gave him her most winning smile.

"I do love to see fresh faces around here!" she said, by way of a greeting.

"It is a fine establishment you have here, my darling. I'm sure people come from far and wide to patronize it."

He was Antivan, his speech heavily accented, but the hood of his cloak hid his face except for a wry smile.

"It's nice of you to say, stranger. But you don't seem to be experiencing all it has to offer at the moment."

"True, and it_ is_ a shame. Unfortunately I am here merely on business, my dear. I do require something from you, however."

"Name it!" Sanga said eagerly. Antivans that made it this far afield were generally not only wealthy but powerful.

"I require a room, for myself, and an associate. For two nights only, no questions asked. I will of course pay you the full fee, and a bonus of 30 sovereigns for your...discretion in this matter."

It was the easiest 30 sovereigns she ever made.

-

The night was black and moonless, and Zevran cut through side streets with silent steps, his hair and the glint of his armor hidden by a black cloak. Lena followed, wearing a similar voluminous cloak. Zevran had deliberately changed his distinctive affect, removing the familiar swagger and rolling his shoulders forward, slouching slightly.

His hand brushed hers. "This is it, my Lena," he said, voice low.

_The Pearl_ was a fairly indistinct store-front in the Market District of Denerim. From through the fogged glass, only indistinct shapes could be seen moving, but the sounds of laughing and drinking carried outside.

Zevran pushed the door open, and light spilled across them. When they stepped in, she immediately noticed the smell of Orlaisian perfume and tobacco, with a faint undercurrent of ale. Zevran's steps carried him toward the back of the establishment, toward the rooms, and to her surprise, no one so much as looked up at them. Ladies (and a few gentlemen) in various states of dress and undress served drinks and sat at cards with their clients, and not a single one took any notice of them at all.

_No one is as discrete as a...what's that lovely Ferelden euphemism?...a "lady of the evening". _ Zevran had told her. He hadn't been mistaken.

They walked down a long hallway until Zevran found the correct quarters. He turned sharply on his heel and pulled her inside, closing the door with his boot.

He dropped their packs. While she removed her cloak, he made a thorough search of the rooms, even looking under the bed and inside the drawers of the tiny bedside table.

It was quite nice, actually. A large double bed, fresh flowers in a vase on the bedside table. There was a tiny fireplace, and in the room beyond—wonder of wonders—an indoor bath with _hot water_ in it.

Zevran took off his cloak with a flourish, seemingly following her train of thought. "Now that w_as _a nice touch." he said, nodding toward the bath and arching an eyebrow at her.

He put his hands on her hips, leaning in to kiss her ear. "They probably think I'm here to bed some wealthy man's wife. Good."

He leaned back again and his dark eyes flickered over her face.

"How do you feel, my Lena? My first Mark was a rather nerve-racking experience, if I remember correctly. Rather like losing one's virginity, except someone winds up dead at the end."

She laughed. "I feel well enough, considering."

"It _is_ too bad that we are forced to keep a low profile." Zevran said, sitting on the bed and kicking his boots off. "Did you see the dark-haired fellow with the leather pants? And the lovely red-head he was entertaining?"

Lena laughed again. "You're incorrigible!"

"I'm simply glad to be back in the game, my darling. Nothing makes one feel alive like depriving someone else of life, especially when they deserve it. But in the meantime, let's enjoy these pleasant accommodations!"

He sprang up, and pulled her by the hand toward the bath.

"Zevran! We still have all our clothes on!" She had never seen him so excited.

"My darling, how long are your clothes ever left undisturbed around me?"


	6. The Mark, Part II

_Warning! This chapter contains both implied rape (as per the city elf origin) and a description of someone being assassinated. If this sort of thing offends you...well, don't read about a city elf and her professional assassin lover. _

_Also, this story (and indeed most of my stories) contain "Easter Eggs", lines from movies and books, song titles, etc. Bonus points for spotting them!  
_

_

* * *

_

Lena had dreams sometimes about Shianni, how she found her on the ground in Bann Vaughn's bedroom. The moment their eyes met, and she didn't have to ask what had happened. Shianni was family, and family was all an elf in Denerim had.

Duncan had tried to teach her temperance, and she genuinely appreciated his quiet lessons about controlling one's emotions even in the heat of battle, even when the Darkspawn blood in her own veins pulled her along like some thundering beast into near-madness. But the only time bloodlust had driven her to near-madness had nothing to do with the Darkspawn.

When she and her family were taken by the Bann and his friends to be used and discarded on a whim, she had felt a white-hot rage that not even the man's own death had calmed. There was a bigger, more important target. A man who for years had ground the Alienage to dust under his boot.

The Arl of Denerim.

Lena had not forgotten about him.

-

Sunset. Zevran supervised her dressing and putting on gear like a proud mother helping her child on the first day off to the academy. She wore a simple peasant gown and apron, and a cloth headwrap to hide her ears. He wore minimal armor, and only leather. Zevran had outfitted her with an impressive collection of knives and other armaments. They were weapons of last resort, but, as Zevran said, _"When you get locked into a serious weapons collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can." _

They left _The Pearl_, again, no one seemed particularly interested in their presence there. The night was moonless and Lena led the way to the Estate.

On the way, they stopped a farmer pushing a wheelbarrow full of hay.

"Excuse me, Sir. I would like to purchase your wheelbarrow."

He scowled at her. "And who are you, exactly?"

"I am someone with 10 sovereigns to spend on a wheelbarrow."

"Use it in good health, stranger!"

Now was the difficult part.

-

They crossed the threshold of the Arl's massive estate, Zevran with in his dark cloak and she in her peasant's clothes. They looked like some of the many workers on the Arl's estate. He pushed the wheelbarrow and she followed, eyes down. One of the things that her mother had told her time and time again was that people will not notice that you are out of place unless you act like you are.

They stopped behind the castle, by the stables. They had yet to see a single person. Unexpectedly, Zevran kissed her firmly and lingeringly.

"This is where we part, my Lena." He whispered.

She smiled, feeling her blood begin to race. With an experienced assassin like Zevran by her side, things seemed simple. But now, she was on her own.

"I know that you will make me proud, and I am _not_ an easily-impressed person."

She looked up at him for a long moment, at his strange honeyed eyes and lopsided smile, hoping for the first time that she would survive long enough to see peace again.

Then she turned and entered the estate.

-

Lena entered through the scullery, but thankfully, no one was doing the washing at this hour of the night. Huge copper pots and pans were stacked in piles side-by-side with dishes and goblets. She had only been in the Arl's estate once before, but like every elf in Denerim, she was well-familiar with the layout of the servant's quarters in any castle. The well was in the scullery, so the laundry room must also be nearby. She tried a few doors before she found it.

So far she had been incredibly lucky. There were no servants about to notice that she wasn't a familiar face. That might work against her later.

She found a basket of clean sheets, and stuffed her equipment into it, covering it with fabric. The she went to find the Arl.

-

Outside, Zevran waited. He didn't mind playing second fiddle, as it were. Lena's Mark was someone who had hurt her personally, and personal spite was a fantastic motivator. He didn't want to get in the way of that. Zevran pretended to muck out the stables, counting silently to himself.

She should be climbing the stairs now.

She'd sketched out what layout of the estate she could remember, but she'd admitted that her memory was probably hazy. She'd been charging to the rescue of her cousin's honor, and also slaughtering her way through the Arl's guards, and that did distract one from floor-plans.

On the top floor now, looking under doors for light.

_Oh my Lena, _he thought, unable to help a glance up at the one lit window above.

-

A set of guards passed her, and she thought for a moment that her heart would beat right out of her chest. But no. They were talking amongst themselves, and noticed her only long enough to look down her cleavage. She averted her eyes like she'd been trained to do in the presence of the Arl's men.

But now she was only the top floor. It wouldn't be long now. Candles were lit in the master suite; she saw it from outside.

She slowed her gait deliberately, trying to make her grip on the laundry look casual, casting her eyes downward.

Then, she saw it, a tiny sliver of light from beneath the door.

Her hands were tingling, and her breath came faster. This was the point of no return. They could leave, rejoin their party, and never speak of this again. Then she thought of the Alienage, and how desperately she never wanted to see Shianni on the floor again in her dreams.

The door opened noiselessly, and there he was, sitting at his desk. In her imaginings, he had been taller.

He looked up, a middle-aged balding human in his pajama's. He wasn't much like what she was used to killing. For moment their eyes locked before she averted her gaze. She closed the door with her foot.

"What are you doing up here at this hour, girl?" He didn't bother to turn away from his desk.

Lena didn't dare speak. Like most elves, _Ferel_ was her second language. Her speech was perfect, but a careful ear could still pick up an accent.

She dropped her laundry basket.

"I'm not in the mood this evening for a woman, and I'm certainly not going to pay for one."

Her steps brought her to stand behind him, Zevran's lesson's snapping through her brain rapid-fire. _Close off the blood but not the air, knee in the back for leverage, watch for gouging and flailing. _

As her arm closed around his throat in a perfect blood-choke, she did not feel the satisfaction that she assumed she would. Actually, she felt nothing. She was not so much murdering a man as an idea. Lena's mother could not be un-murdered, and Shianni could not be un-raped. Her young life spent under the Arl's boot could not ever be changed, but the future was wide open.

The Arl flailed around briefly, trying to rise, tearing at her bare arms for the few seconds that he remained conscious. She didn't feel it.

Zevran was right. Some people just needed to die.

-

Some bored guards had passed on their rounds, but no one takes too much notice of a man in the stables with a pitchfork full of horseshit. It had been a very long time now, and uncharacteristically, anxiety was mounting. This woman was making him feel all sorts of things he wasn't used to.

The window swung open silently above him, and it was the best sight he had ever seen. Lena's face appeared. She was flushed and breathless, but smiling. Her hands shook on the sill.

Silently, he brought his wheelbarrow over, and awaited what was left of the Arl.

-

With a very long rope and proper application of leverage and friction (in this case, involving a few loops around a heavy curtain rod), it is possible for a small person to lower a very heavy weight down the side of a building. This is where her equipment came in handy.

When the Arl's body was safely in the wheelbarrow and buried in hay, Zevran took the other end of the rope and lowered her down. They stuffed her rope and equipment into the wheelbarrow as well, and started on their way.

Lena didn't seem to breathe until they re-entered the city. She pulled the cloak tighter around herself and sighed, turning to look up at him. Something passed between them. If possible, he'd just developed more respect for her, and she could tell.

Lena blushed. Everything that had happened between them, and a simple look was enough to make her embarrassed. She was a strange woman indeed.


	7. The Mark, Part III

_All right, everyone, this is the last segment of The Mark. I've been nervous about this story-arc, so I'd love to hear your feedback! :)_

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By the time they got back _The Pearl_, the crowd was slightly louder and drunker. They could hear laugher and glasses clinking from the street.

Zevran pushed the wheelbarrow around to the alley behind the brothel and unloaded the Arl. He took off his cloak and put it around the body, pulling the hood up. Then they each threaded an arm around him and dragged him to the front door.

"Can this possibly work?" Lena hissed through clenched teeth.

"It can, and will." Zevran said cheerfully.

"Alright." She sighed, then cleared her throat.

"For Maker's sake, Bernie!" Lena declared suddenly, vaguely aiming her voice at the Arl's head.

"It's not his fault," Zevran responded, pushing the door open with his boot. "You heard the man. His wife left him. He's depressed."

"That doesn't mean he should drink that way. He'll do himself a mischief!" Lena looked around furtively. It was business as usual at _The Pearl_. No one seemed overly interested in their activities.

They drug the Arl through the main area and toward the hallway to the rooms.

"Let the man have some fun. It's what he's here for, after all." Zevran said as they entered their rented rooms. He kicked the door shut behind them.

"Maker!" Lena exclaimed as they laid him out on the bed. "I utterly cannot believe that worked!"

Zevran was nonchalant. "Of course it did. What do people expect to see in a bar, a drunk man and two friends or a dead politician and two assassins?"

"Admittedly, that concept has worked for me before, but I didn't expect to be able to drag the Arl's body through his own town and get away with it by slapping him on the back occasionally and calling him 'Bernie'."

Zevran smiled lop-lopsidedly. "It's been quite a weekend, hasn't it?"

They were stripping the Arl's pants off and arranging him into what Zevran had casually referred to as a 'compromising position'.

"Besides, you are a natural, my darling. Just accept it. Though I will admit that this is perhaps the most _atypical_ assassination I have ever overseen."

Zevran was digging through his pack. He'd lifted a few pairs of Morrigan's lacy underthings and were now sprinkling them around the room, along with some of the Arl's clothes Lena had picked up in his quarters. Then he cut a few lengths of rope and began tying the Arl's wrists to the bedposts.

"I don't think he's in danger of escaping." Lena said sarcastically.

Zevran laughed. "The Ferelden sense of humor is so twisted and black. I love it! No, my dear. The more embarrassing this little scene is, the less investigation will be made."

Then, seeming to consider his own advice briefly, he stuffed one of the underthings into the Arl's mouth.

"There! That should do it."

He started packing everything back up, re-buckling his cloak around himself. Lena made a final sweep of the room.

"Shall we go, my Lady?" He extended his arm to her.

"Yes." She said, taking it. "Let's."

-

Sanga was having one hell of a morning. One of the girls woke her at sun-up, yelling hysterically about a dead man in one of the rooms. Just when the rest were getting worked up, one of the gentlemen in her employ recognized him as the Arl of Denerim.

She sent him away to fetch the guards while she had a strong cup of coffee.

They came and spent a shockingly brief time examining the room. While two of them carted the Arl's body away in a sheet, the third (and brightest) one sat at the bar. She poured him a coffee.

He was very young, pinching the bridge of his nose like this was the very last thing he wanted to be discussing an hour after dawn.

"Do you know which lady was with the Arl last evening?"

She had been paid good money by the foreign man to rent the very room where the Arl was found, of course. There may have been funny business afoot, but...something about the jingle of 30 sovereigns in her pouch kept her from wondering aloud.

"Not one of mine. And there were two. Both elves. The man was blonde. They must have run off after the...incident."

The guard's eyes widened perceptibly and he took a long drink of coffee.

"The Arl came here last night with two _elves_, one of whom was male."

"Yes," she said. _Apparently the Arl not only swung both ways but was much less racist than he let on, _she added silently to herself.

The guard drummed his fingers on the counter for a moment, then tossed a purse onto the counter.

"One-hundred sovereigns says that you, and your people, never saw the Arl here. I assume you can be trusted for discretion in this matter."

Sanga put her hand over her heart.

"I am discretion's very soul, young man."

"Thank you for that, and also the coffee. Good day." He said, and made a hasty retreat.

When the front door slammed shut, all of her people emerged cautiously from the back hallway.

"Well...? What happened?" One of the ladies asked in a whisper.

"What happened..." Sanga said, dumping the purse out onto the bar, "...Was a perfectly ordinary night, followed by a terrific morning."

They divided up the coin while Sanga put on more coffee.


	8. The Grudge, Questions

The Grudge, Questions

They walked through Orzammar's enormous Hall of Heroes, and Lena seemed to know what Alistair was thinking.

"We're safe in Orzammar, at least. You heard the gate-keeper, no one else enters until they have a new king on the throne."

"I expect we'll have to help with that, as usual." Alistair sighed.

Lena snorted, still stretching her bad shoulder. "Yes, but there are no assassins and undead horrors stalking us. Presently. I suggest we take the night off."

Alistair actual laughed in surprise. "And here I thought you were all work."

-

Orzammar didn't have inns, as such, since visitors from the surface were more or less unheard of. However, after talking to a few people, they were given accommodations at the Orzammar Consulate, where dwarven dignitaries from more-distant houses stayed when they spoke at the assembly.

The Consulate only had two rooms available, so of course Zevran and Lena took one, and Leliana and he took the other. They dropped off their gear in the room, and sat down on their tiny beds. The walls and ceilings were gem-studded, and all the furniture was carved right out of the solid rock. It was opulent, really, except for the length of the beds.

Leliana was immediately bored. She was very highly-strung and hated being sedentary for any length of time. She sprung up.

"Let's go to the pub. I saw one on the way."

Alistair barely remembered what a pub _was. _He hadn't had a day off since the battle at Ostagar.

"Oh, I don't know, 'Liana."

"It will do you good, Alistair, you know it will. You've been surly for weeks."

"Maybe I'm naturally surly."

"You're a wonderful, good-humored person naturally. Let's go to the pub."

-

_Tapsters_ was still crowded when they arrived. Men, and a few women, sat in small groups, laughing and talking the way everyone, regardless of race, did at the pub. A few dwarves looked up at them curiously with bleary eyes, but no one accosted them. Waitresses flitted from table to table with enormous steins full of foamy ale. Someone was singing drunkenly from somewhere.

They sat at a tiny table and Liliana orders drinks.

"Thank the Maker." Liliana said, sipping her ale. "No one makes a finer lager than the dwarves, my friend. I haven't had any since before the blight."

"Mmhmm," Alistair said non-noncommittally, drawing invisible circles on the table-top with his finger.

"Alistair, what is _wrong_ with you? Is this really about Lena and Zevran?"

"Isn't that enough? One half of the Grey Wardens in existence is dallying with someone who was hired to murder her!"

Liliana scowled at him. "Drink your ale. I bought it for you and you're going to drink it. Also, I can't believe that you're holding someone's past against them. I thought you were better than that, Alistair!"

"Liliana! This isn't the very distant past, you know."

"Have you ever spoken to him at length?"

"Not really."

"You should! He has quite the story to tell."

"It's like everyone has taken leave of their senses!"

"Did you know, for example, that he is an orphan who was _sold_ to the Antivan Crows as a child? That until recently it was the only life he had ever known? I think it's possible that our Lena was the first person ever to care about him one way or the other. It warms my heart."

"_My_ heart is unconvinced."

Leliana sighed. "Don't you think he would have just killed her, or indeed all of us, by now if that was what he wanted? He's had plenty of opportunity."

Alistair took a deep swallow of ale. It was actually quite good.

He sighed. "Oh, I don't know, Leliana."

She drummed her fingers on the table. "Do you know what I think?"

"Hmm."

"I think that Lena was the only other person who knew Duncan who is still alive. That you went through so much together, and now that she's taken a lover, it seems like your friendship isn't important to her anymore. But it's not so, Alistair. Lena is the same woman she always was, except that she's considerably less tense now that someone is warming her bed."

"Hah! She is that."

"You must notice how much happier she is now."

"Alright, alright. Even if he isn't here for the express purpose of murdering us in our sleep, he'll leave us as soon as the Crows are out of the way. And Lena, whether she admits it or not, will be made very, very _un_happy."

Liliana shrugged. "People will surprise you sometimes."

-

He'd assumed that being surrounded by all that stone would be claustrophobic, but actually it felt good to be sleeping under something solid, for once. Indeed, Orzammar was almost womb-like; constantly twilight, and warmed by endless forges.

They stripped their beds (elves were short, but not that short) and piled everything into the space between them along with their bedrolls and cloaks.

Then Zevran inspected the room down to the crevasses in the walls. He was feeling along the crack under the door when Lena spoke.

"Zevran. Please, relax. Not even the Crows can get into Orzammar now, and anyone else, their impressive security can handle."

Zevran sighed, sitting back on his haunches.

"They must be close by now, Warden. Probably literally right on top of us."

Lena was stretching her still-painful right shoulder. "All the more reason to rest well now."

Zevran crossed the room and sat with her on their makeshift bed. She was wearing only an undershirt now, and the jagged pale-white scars along the crest of her shoulder pained him. An unfortunate memento of their meeting. He felt along the line of muscles in her neck and into her shoulder until he found the break, a mass of scar tissue that hadn't yet had a chance to settle under the constant strain.

Lena leaned into him until her head was almost on his chest.

"Warden, I was wondering. When the Crows find us, and we of course murder them all...then what?"

He felt her tense under his fingers, but her voice was neutral.

"You can do whatever you want, Zevran."

A beat of silence passed in the near-darkness.

"You are a free agent. Whatever debt you owed me in exchange for your life is long since repaid." Lena suddenly sounded very, very tired.

So he was free. He could go back to Antiva, eventually, take an assumed name and start over. Or maybe to Orlais, where assassins were always busy. And yet...He didn't feel the elation he thought he'd feel at hearing those words.

He turned Lena to face him, wordlessly, his fingers seeking out the delicate bones of her face, his thumb tracing her lower lip. He couldn't talk now. He was a creature of instinct and these thoughts hurt too much to speak aloud. Lena, as always, understood. They had far more in common than she even knew.

Zevran's bed had seldom been empty since he was about 14. But something he felt moving through himself in the Grey Warden's arms that was almost entirely unfamiliar. And instead of pleasing him, it filled him with a bottomless, nameless dread.

-

Alistair's vision was only swimming slightly when Leliana was finally content to leave the pub. The streets of Orzammar were quiet now, except for the ever-present hissing and clanging from far-off forges.

They tip-toed back into the Consulate and spent a few moments drunkenly trying to remember which direction their room was actually in. Eventually, Leliana pulled him down what he hoped was the right darkened hallway...

...So dark, in fact, that he didn't see Zevran sitting against a door until he was almost tripping over him. To his horror, a giggling Leliana disappeared into their room while he was extricating himself.

"Ah. My apologies, Zevran!"

Zevran waved dismissively. He had a whetstone in one hand and an assortment of knives and daggers on the ground beside him.

"It's nothing, Alistair." He didn't look up.

"Maker, man, what are you doing?" Alistair asked, swaying slightly.

At that, Zevran looked up, smiling wryly.

"She is asleep. I didn't want to disturb her." He tested the edge of a blade on his thumb, then kept sharpening.

It occurred to Alistair that he had never actually seen Zevran sleeping.

"Do you_ ever_ rest?" The warm glow of alcohol made it easier to talk to anybody. Even, as it turned out, people who had tried to kill you in the past.

Zevran sighed deeply. He rested his head against the wall, looking way, way, up at Alistair.

"When the assassins show themselves and we are rid of them, then I will rest."

Alistair slid down the wall and sat beside him. Zevran was always a head shorter than him, but he seemed suddenly even smaller, deflated somehow.

"Are they close?"

"Definitely. I can hear them like the Wardens hear the Darkspawn." He tossed the knife lightly and caught it by the blade.

"I wouldn't worry too much. We are a formidable bunch."

Zevran nodded, but didn't seem convinced. Alistair had only limited skills with intuition, but it seemed to him that the Crows were only part of the problem.

Abruptly, the blade flew out of Zevran's hand and stuck, humming, in the stone wall for a moment before clattering to the floor.

"Get some sleep, Alistair. I have the feeling that this will be our last quiet night for awhile."


	9. As The Crows Fly, Part I

As the Crows Fly

They made it all the way back into the lowlands their first night out of Orzammar, and, of course, this was when the Crows found them.

Zevran was poking idly at the fire when some leaves in the forest crunched in that way that they only could under a human foot.

"Wardens! Now!" He managed to bellow before they fell on him.

Alistair appeared first, tearing one assassin off of him by the hair and throwing him to the ground. Zevran drove his elbow hard into the second one's windpipe.

Lena suddenly hurtled past him, driving her sword into the assassin that Alistair had thrown to the ground, and without missing her count, flowed into the next motion like he had taught her.

Two left.

Leliana appeared next, and the odds shifted in their favor. For the moment.

_Clear the first wave._

The Crows, of course, always attacked in waves. Indeed, it seemed that they'd sent all the students in first, in the hopes that the masters wouldn't need to get their hands dirty. He'd done this as a student, and survived.

As the last trainee fell, the four masters stepped out of the trees. He knew them all, but one most of all.

Taliesin looked incredibly casual, given the circumstances. He attacked without preamble while the other four split up to engage his companions. He'd never been one for monologues or flowery entrances.

"You could still come back with us, you know." Taliesin said in Antivan as their blades crossed. "I could make something up."

He had the size advantage, as ever, but Zevran had always been quicker. His blows landed harmlessly on his armor or not at all.

"You must tell me, Taliesin, before I kill you," he said, ignoring the question. "Did you purposefully set me up, or was it truly an accident?"

"Oh, so you're going to kill me? I'll be the second lover you've murdered, or have I forgotten a few?"

Taliesin was so busy boasting that he left himself open, and Zevran managed to break his nose with the hilt of his sword. It was _deeply_ satisfying.

"_You_ murdered Rinna to get to me. To teach me a lesson. Always with the lessons."

From somewhere, Alistair roared in triumph. The balance was now decidedly tipped in their favor.

"Damn it! You are such an idiot!" Taliesin snarled. "You could have been one of the best of us."

Their party was backing him into a corner. To his left, Lena was beheading one of his old instructors.

Zevran didn't hear his words. Every nerve sang, time slowed. He saw his opening stretch out before him. Taliesin took a step toward him, his Crow dagger in a reverse grip, going for his ribs. But Zevran leaned away from the strike, locking his hands and driving the pommel of his sword hard into Taliesin's skull. He fell forward, and before he hit the ground Zevran had cleanly beheaded him.

He drove the sword into the ground, panting. Around him, his companions looked on, blood-soaked, amazed. Oh, it had been very close indeed. He'd almost made it. But there was only one way out of the Crows.

He looked down at himself. Half a dozen small injuries bled.

"Lena...They always poison their blades."

One knee buckled and then the other, and he saw their outstretched arms, then nothing.

-

_I'm sorry, my Lena._ He said, or maybe only thought. He could see her outline, but she seemed very far away. And speaking to him, but it sounded like she was under water.

Then, abruptly, he was awake.

His eyes darted about wildly before focusing on her. His hand closed around her wrist and she gasped, facing him.

"Zevran!" His name came out in a half-sob.

"In the flesh, my Lena." He said, and his voice sounded gravelly and strange.

She propped him up against her chest gently, and held the waterskin to his lips.

"How do you feel?" She said when he'd drank his fill.

"Like I've been hollowed out. How long...?" He tried to sit up and failed.

"Two days," Lena said, putting a hand firmly on his chest so he wouldn't try that foolish idea again.

Zevran looked down at himself. He was totally naked. The cuts he'd taken in the attack were already closing but looked and angry. Lena had been right not to bind them. Letting him bleed out some of the poison had probably saved his life.

Lena's voice had an unfamiliar tremble to it when she spoke next, and she made to move to relinquish her embrace.

"Alistair and Leliana left immediately to get Wynne and bring her here. We didn't know what else to do. We didn't even know what you'd been poisoned with. Your pulse was rapid and thready and all you did was throw-up violently and mutter in Antivan for the first day. I thought you would die. I really thought you would burn up from fever right in front of me."

"Lena. Please." He could barely move, so he just looked up at her. He was a strange thing to fall apart over considering all the more important things she had to worry about.

Then, abruptly, his eyelids seemed very heavy, and Lena felt very warm and soft against his back.

"I'm just going to close my eyes for a moment, my Lena..." He managed to say, before sleep pulled him under again.

-

In the morning, Lena looked and sounded more like herself, and he also felt distinctly more alive. He'd literally never had another person take care of him before, and it was both a novel and discomfiting experience.

Lena helped him outside the tent to wash his face and hair, after which he felt distinctly better. She was uncharacteristically quiet as they split a meal of hardtack and wild apples by the campfire.

"Taliesin is the second lover I have killed. I need you to know this." He said, finally, and a wave of relief washed over him. His mind was made up. He was hers if she wanted him, and if she didn't...well, that was probably a wise choice on her part.

Lena snorted. "You're no choirboy." She said, biting into a tiny spring apple. She met his eyes and there was intensity in her gaze that he had seldom seen in her when she didn't have her sword in some Darkspawn.

"There is very little you can tell me that will make me think differently of you. But I would like to hear."

Zevran sighed. "Alright."

"I was, as I've said, seven when I was sold to the Crows. It is not an easy life. Only about, say, one out of ten recruits survive. Forming allegiances is a good way to improve your odds. It was this way with me and Taliesin, the brown-haired human I beheaded a few days ago. Not love, exactly, but as close as it gets in a nest of killers. He was older than me and protected me from the predations of the older boys, and introduced me to sex with men.

Anyway, let's move forward some years. I was a teenager when a girl called Rinna came to the Crows. She was elfin as well, also culled from a whorehouse. She was foul-mouthed, smart, gorgeous, brutal, and utterly dedicated to the Crows. I was immediately infatuated, and we too had a dalliance that went on for some months. Together we were sent to hunt an Orlesian mark with Taliesin as our mentor. The mark was a wealthy merchant with many contacts.

One night, Taliesin told me that Rinna had sold us out. He tortured her to uncover her contacts, and I let him. She begged me to stop him. She told me that she was in love with me. I laughed in her face.

The Crows taught us that love is merely a thing that people use to weaken and deceive us. In many cases, this is true. Not in her case, however.

When we finally reached the mark, we also found the source of his information. Not Rinna. Some bureaucrat in Antiva with vague ties to the Crows.

I told you once that I have only a few regrets in life. Well, this is the largest of them."

Lena looked somber, but he charged on ahead. It was too late to stop now.

"If you don't want me, tell me now, Lena. We have had our fun, and I won't hold it against you if you want to leave it at that. You are an incredible woman and you should take the path of lasting happiness."

She threw an apple-core into the woods with a shaking hand.

"Did he know? Taliesin, I mean?"

"I believe now that he did, yes. He had to prove to me that any affection I had for her was a weakness. And I'm sure simple jealousy entered into it, as well."

His last question hung between them, and her silence seemed to go on an eternity.

"I don't want you to leave." Lena said finally, hugging her knees. "Besides, you threw up all over me yesterday. You owe me."

It took a few moments for it to register that she was making a joke. Maker, did nothing phase this woman?

"I just told you that I murdered the last woman who loved me!"

"You were deceived. And it's been established that you can't kill me."

"I don't know if you're the most forgiving woman in history or out of your mind." He said, before he realized that she'd just described herself as a woman who loved him.

"You...Want me to stay?" Every nerve was humming, his fingertips tingled strangely. Getting this close to Lena's core was like trying to touch fire.

"Yes, Zevran!"

"Good." He said. "Because I'd follow you to the gates of the Black City itself."


	10. As the Crows Fly, Part II

Lena sat up through the night, feeding the fire and cleaning their weapons and armor. Sleep was out of the question.

Ironically, sleeping at Zevran's side now seemed improper. She sensed the same reticence from him in the way he retreated to his tent without his trademark smirk and beckon. For weeks they'd been involved in an affair that varied in degree from flirtatious to bone-jarringly intense. But always there was a deadline approaching. Someday the Crows would come, and if they survived the encounter, they would very likely go their separate ways.

But battlefield conditions changed quickly. And since Lena was now a seasoned warrior, she should have seen it coming. Glances that were more than purely carnal, touches that spoke more of affection than lust.

Alistair and Leliana arrived before dawn, Wynne in tow. They'd travelled hard, that much was obvious. Wynne's face was wan in the firelight.

She stood to greet them, but Wynne only said "Is he..."

"No, he's sleeping." Lena said, and Leliana clapped Alistair on the shoulder in congratulations, laughing exhaustedly. Apparently, any hostility he'd previously felt for Zevran had been forgotten. That was one thing to be said of Alistair: holding a grudge was utterly outside his character.

Wynne let out a long breath, her eyes searching her face.

"You haven't slept since the fight." She said, her voice taking on a distinctly motherly tone.

Lena mumbled something about keeping watch, but Wynne wasn't having any of it.

"Go now. I'll check on Zevran. Regardless of his condition I won't have him walking for at least a day, so sleep in. Shoo!"

"Thank you, Wynne. And Alistair, and Leliana." She said sheepishly.

"Bed! Now!" Wynne snapped, and Lena retreated to her suddenly very empty tent.

The last thing she heard was Zevran, in his bed for once, muttering sleepily about strange women coming to molest him and Wynne telling him to keep a still tongue in his head while she looked at his wounds.

Then, suddenly, she heard nothing more.

-

The sun was high in the sky when Lena crawled out of her tent again. Leliana and Alistair were by the fire, eating bread and cheese and cooking sausage in the coals.

"That smells amazing." She said, brushing hair out of her face.

Alistair patted the log beside him. "You look like you've been dragged through a bush backwards." He said with mock seriousness.

"And a good morning to you, too, Alistair." She grumped.

Leliana handed her a plate.

"You look lovely, my dear. For someone who was recently awake for three days." Leliana said more diplomatically.

Alistair pulled a tin cup of coffee off the coals and handed it to her.

"Thank the Maker," she said, sipping.

Wynne appeared from the woods, a bundle of herbs in one hand.

"Good morning, Warden," she said. "My patient is doing well. He's catching up on three weeks worth of sleep at once, it seems."

"Glad to hear it. Sit and eat." Lena gestured to the log next to her. Wynne sat with a sigh, and Alistair handed her a plate.

"He'll be back to his old self in no time, I imagine."

"Good. Thank you." Lena said, slightly uncomfortable that everyone was 'reporting' to her. Was she really so transparent? Everyone had, of course, noticed that they shared a bed, but...

Then a tent-flap moved, and Zevran appeared, bleary-eyed. He put a hand up to shield his eyes from the sun.

"_Madre mia,"_ he groaned. "I haven't had a morning like _this_ for a few years."

Leliana clapped happily.

"Zevran dear! Sit down." She said.

Zevran sat down between Alistair and Leliana, yawning. Leliana handed him a plate and Alistair thumped him on the back hard enough that he winced.

"What will you do now that the Crows are done with, Zevran?" Leliana asked with her usual directness.

"Oh, fight the archdemon, defeat the blight, save the world. The usual. After that, I was thinking of taking up sculpting." He said dryly, accepting a cup of coffee from Alistair.

Leliana laughed delicately, giving Alistair a meaningful look. Alistair groaned and reached into his pack, then flipped her a sovereign from across the fire. She caught it neatly.

"...Thank you, sir." She said, tucking it into her bag.

-

The sun was barely breaking the craggy horizon when Lena crawled out of her tent after a restless night. The air was cold and still and a layer of dew had settled on everything. She pulled on her bracers, surveying the silent trees, her eyes catching on where she'd buried the Crows in a shallow grave.

She was fastening the myriad buckles of her breastplate when Zevran appeared from out of the woods. He was carrying their waterskins, dripping from the stream. When he saw her his lips twisted into a smile.

"Good morning, Warden." He said, dropping the waterskins and kicking ash over the still-smoking fire-pit. He looked like himself again. The color had come back to his face and the ever-present sly grin had reappeared.

"I found something in my things I thought I would give you." He said, turning to his pack and rifling around for a moment. When he turned around he had something tiny between two fingers. He took her right hand in his left and dropped something into her palm.

Turning it over, she saw that it was a single gemmed earring. Emerald, maybe, bordered in gold. He stood by patiently, perhaps even nervously, as she looked at it.

"What's this?" Lena said finally, more than a little surprised at the gesture.

He nodded toward it. "From my first ever Mark. I was 15. He was an Antivan nobleman from a prominent house--wearing that earring, and not much else. A gift. Take it."

"A token of your affection?" She couldn't help but ask, smirking. To her surprise, he actually blushed. So it _was_ possible to embarrass him.

"It's occurred to me that I haven't thanked you properly for helping me with the Crows. Or apologized for being sick all over you in my convalescence. Please, just take it."

Lena reached up and slipped it into her earlobe. She hadn't worn earrings since she was a child.

"Thank you." She said.

He gave her a tiny bow as Wynne emerged from her tent, brushing herself off.

"My pleasure." He said, looking relieved.

"Oh no," Wynne said, shaking a finger at them as she approached. "No one is allowed to concern themselves with Zevran's _pleasure_ for at least a few days. Let the man rest, for Maker's sake."

He rolled his eyes and went back to packing up his things, leaving her to look out over the horizon again.


	11. Complications

Complications

Denerim had changed since the death of its Arl, and not for the better. The Alienage was closed off, and no amount of bribery could get them in. Even Arl Eamon was powerless.

Lena paced the halls of the Eamon's Denerim estate, less than a block away from her childhood home in the Alienage. When she killed the Arl, she thought she'd been doing the Alienage a favor. How could she have been so foolish?

She considered Zevran's closed door for a moment. It was late. No light shone from under his door. Doubtless, they all could use some rest before the Landsmeet. Twice she raised her hand to knock, and twice dropped it.

Then quiet footsteps made her look up. It was Wynne.

The older woman always seemed to embody grace and dignity, even when the best bed to be found was a pine bough and the best bath to be had was in a freezing stream. Now, in much better accommodations, the effect was even more apparent.

"Lena, dear. I'm glad you're awake. I'd rather like to talk to you." She said, wrapping a shawl tighter around herself against the chill air of the castle.

Lena sighed. "Of course. But let's sit outside. It's too nice a night to be indoors."

Wynne motioned her forward. "Lead on, Warden."

-

From atop the battlements of the Arl's castle, all of Denerim could be surveyed at once. A thousand torches lit the market, and even music or the occasional voice drifted up to them from below.

Wynne leaned back against the wall they sat against, hands in her lap. She sighed.

"I'd like to talk to you about...Zevran."

Lena looked up from the city in surprise. That was definitely not what she had expected.

"Zevran? What about him?"

"What are your intentions toward him?"

Lena almost laughed. "Are you concerned for his honor?"

Wynne's face darkened. Whatever it was she was driving at, she was very serious about it.

"This is not about about him. This is about you.

I was young once. I understand that you were having a...dalliance of sorts with the man. But since the Crows were defeated, I sense that something has changed. I believe that you've become emotionally involved as well as physically. And that, you cannot do.

You are a Grey Warden, and as such your life is not your own. You only invite pain upon yourself, as well as him. If there is truly any love between you, you should let him go."

Lena gaped. Her mouth opened and closed a few times, the blood rushing to her face.

"And what would you suggest I do?" Her voice was low and dangerous. "Send him away? Don't you think he deserves better than that? Don't I? Maker, Wynne, in a few weeks I'll be fighting one of the old _gods_ at the helm of his army! Don't you think I deserve love before I throw myself against the darkspawn horde?"

Wynne was not backing down. Her voice was also quiet, but her tone betrayed her feelings.

"Are you so young and naive to think that we all get what we deserve?" Wynne said.

"Are you so old and dried-up that you have no feelings at all?" Lena snarled back. She stood, dusting herself off forcefully. She strode toward the staircase.

"You're being selfish!" Wynne called after her. She didn't respond.

She thundered down the stairs, her hands balled into fists.

A few noblemen and servants were still in the main hall at this late hour but no one stopped a Grey Warden in full armor who was so obviously furious.

She was right. Maker damn her, she was right.

By dragging him along with her she was probably condemning him to a horrible death. His oath to her had expired when the Crows were dispatched. Only their affinity kept him by her side.

She wondered what Duncan would say, had he lived. It occurred to her that she'd never wondered if Duncan had a woman, a family. Who had he left behind? Who would she?

He feet carried her down the long hallway, but she didn't stop in front of her door.

Cursing herself, she knocked.

The door opened slowly, and Zevran's face appeared in the darkness.

"Lena?" He said blearily, running a hand through his tousled hair. "What is it?"

"Can I come in?"

The door swung wide.

When she came in he was lighting the oil lamp on his bedside table.

"These are pretty fancy accommodations you've found us, Warden. One of my last assignments with the Crows was in Denerim. I stayed at an inn that was so filthy the bedbugs had fleas."

Zevran was making small-talk. He sensed that something was wrong. Zevran was not, by nature, a small-talker.

She shut the door and slid down it to sit on the cold flagstone, arms around her knees.

"We have to end this." She said before she could lose her nerve, staring at Zevran's back as he threw the curtains of his window open. He was shirtless, so when she spoke she could clearly see all the muscles in his back tense.

"Oh?" He said neutrally, not turning.

"I'm a Grey Warden and we're in a Blight. I don't get to...I can't have a..."

He turned, arms crossed over his chest.

"You owe me no explanation, Warden." He said, crossing his arms over his chest. His face betrayed nothing.

She scrambled to her feet.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you. I'm just...I'm sorry. Sleep well, Zevran." She said, and fled before he saw her tears.

-

The sun was barely beginning its climb into the sky when Zevran burst into his quarters, swearing colorfully in languages he was only vaguely familiar with.

"It's that bitch--Anora." He declared, hand on the hilt of his sword.

Alistair was at his writing desk, considering the fact that in a few days time, he could very well be the regent of Ferelden. He almost fell out of his chair when Zevran stormed in.

"Maker! Anora what? Who?" Alistair stuttered.

Zevran was demonstrating a lack of composure that he had never seen from him before. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

"I just _carried_ Leliana to Wynne's quarters. She said that herself and the Warden were in the gardens early this morning when Anora's maidservant insisted that they go to the Arl of Denerim's estate and 'rescue' Anora from captivity there. But when they got to the gate, Anora claimed that they were kidnapping her and they were overwhelmed by guards. Leliana came-to and Lena was gone. She just managed to make it here before collapsing. We have to go. Now."

"Maker's breath." Alistair pushed away from his desk with such suddenness that his chair tipped and fell. He threw on his armor and sword belt and was still buckling them on as they charged into the hallway together.

"It must be Fort Drakon." Alistair said. "It's Logain's stronghold in this part of the country."

"Where?"

"West of here. Past the Arl of Denerim's estate. But how do we know they didn't just kill her?"

Zevran's mouth was set in a grim line. "If they wanted her dead they would have killed her this morning. They likely want to torture some confessions out of her to weaken your candidacy for the crown."

"Andraste's tits." He swore. Not even king yet and he was already getting people killed. Or worse.

They ran through the market district and past the Arl's estate. A few guards and commoners stared after them—the underdog candidate for King and the best-outfitted elf in Denerim tearing down the street together—but no one stopped them.

"I know this is not a great time to ask, but how exactly do you figure we'll get into Fort Drakon? It's the most heavily fortified castle in the country, as far as I know." Alistair gasped, clutching a stitch in his side.

"I'm thinking, I'm thinking." Zevran said. He wasn't out of breath but still looked absolutely awful. Maybe worse than he had after he'd been poisoned by the Crows' blades.

"You look _terrible_, Zevran." He said, looking down at him.

"Thank you, Alistair. That's why I keep you around—to cater to my ego."

"What happened last night? I heard Lena pacing up and down the hall for an hour, then throwing things at the wall in her room all night—the same wall that, by the way, my headboard is against on the other side."

"She left me." He said curtly.

"She left you what? Oh! Really?" He had apparently seriously misjudged the trajectory of their relationship. _She_ broke _his_ heart?

The carried on in silence for a moment while he tried to think of something appropriate to say. Nothing came to mind. Lena had always been somewhat difficult to fathom but this still seemed rather out of character for her.

"...And you're still here?" He said finally.

Zevran gave him the mother of all dirty looks. "We're saving the whole bloody world from being overrun by the damned. I won't abandon the mission because I got..."

"...discarded like a used handkerchief?"

If possible, Zevran's look darkened.

"Yes. Thank you." He growled.

-

Finally, they arrived at Fort Drakon. He hung back as Zevran quietly garroted two guards of approximately their size. Well, approximately his size. There were no elven guards, and as a result, Zevran looked like he was wearing...well, a much larger man's armor. Hopefully no one would notice.

They marched into the main hall, trying very hard to look like they were supposed to be there. Then, suddenly, there was a terrible commotion. Shouting, swords clashing...

They flashed each other a look then took off toward it, turning into a long passage that led away from the hall...and there she was.

Lena was standing in a pile of dead guards, dripping in gore, her chest heaving. She sheathed her swords when she saw them.

"What took you so long?" She said dryly.

-

The trip back to Arl Eamon's estate was at a considerably more relaxed pace—after all, what would Logain do, send his men into the street to pursue the he and the Grey Wardens in broad daylight?

Lena, thankfully, had fared better than Leliana in the morning's fight. She'd been knocked out cleanly before they could injure her more severely. She'd apparently woke in a prison cell, naked and shackled, and from there had managed in a matter of hours to find all of her armor and weapons and fight her way out of the dungeon. As usual, she'd somehow managed to come out on top.

Leliana and Wynne were waiting for them when they got back. While Lena and Leliana embraced, Wynne gave him a very guilty look that he couldn't interpret. Alistair slapped him on the back, grinning as he watched the reunion.

While the Wardens spent most of the day conferring with Eamon about how next to proceed, he retired to his room where he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sun was setting when he woke again. The sunset seemed to have a different character in Ferelden—colder, more remote. When they'd been outside for months at a time all he wanted was to be indoors, and now that he was, the room seemed constrictive and all he wanted was the fresh air.

He climbed the staircase that led out onto the battlements, unsure as to what he was doing. He should probably be looking for the rest of their party, but he didn't particularly feel like talking to anyone. More than his pride hurt and he wanted to be alone.

Except that he wasn't alone.

Lena sat cross-legged in the sentry's position, overlooking Denerim's market district. She turned, hearing his footfalls immediately. He'd trained her well.

"Zevran!" She blanched, wiping hurriedly at her eyes. "What are you doing up here?"

"I could ask the same of you, Warden." He responded, crossing his arms over his chest. She'd ended it, and he made it easy for her. So why was she up here sulking?

"True." She turned back to look out at the city.

He sighed, exasperated. "Alright, I've changed my mind. You _do_ owe me an explanation."

There was a beat of silence. She didn't turn around, and he didn't move.

"For Maker's sake, Zevran. Why are you still here? You could go anywhere. Orlais, Rivain...even back to Antiva." She said finally.

"Lena, what _are_ you talking about?"

"Why haven't you _left_, you fool? You could be halfway across the Free Marches by now, where there is no Logain and there is no Blight. We're probably all marching off to our executions, and I'm trying to give you a reprieve!"

Now he was actually angry. Did everyone really think that he'd come along on this journey just to get laid? He could get laid anywhere, and in much better climates!

"Do you know me so little? If I was going to go, Lena, I assure you I would have left some time ago. Have I not proved myself after all this time?" He demanded.

Lena seemed to collapse in upon herself.

"Oh Maker, I have made a mess of things." She muttered, face in her hands.

He sat beside her, looking out at Ferelden's strange, cold sunset.

"That's what this is about? You want to save my miserable hide from getting made into a handbag by the darkspawn?"

"And save you the trouble of mourning if my skull gets carved into an ashtray." She laughed bitterly.

"Maker. I thought I'd suddenly developed chronic bad breath. Or you just couldn't listen to one more story about creatively murdering people. Or both."

She leaned into him silently, and he looped an arm around her. Every sunset seemed like it could be their last, lately, and this was no exception. Every time it sank below the horizon he wondered if he would be permitted to watch it rise again, resplendent over the dark mountains.

"You won't leave and save yourself? No matter what I say?"

"I told you I would follow you to the Black City itself. Not just words. An oath."

"Good. Maybe we'll be turned into an attractive pair of leather boots together." Lena sighed.

"Leliana would love us." He said dryly.

They sat in each other's arms in silence as night fell.


	12. Men and Gods

Men and Gods

"Then we'll just have to do it! There's no other way!" Alistair exclaimed.

Lena's eyes were red-rimmed and sunken. Her hands trembled on the wall she leaned against.

"Don't you understand? If we do what she says, there's no point in any of this! The archdemon's soul will survive! And Maker knows what Morrigan will do with some sort of...tainted god!"

"Lena!" He said, abruptly weeping. He wiped his eyes before she saw. "Even if you're right, I won't let you do this! I'm the senior Warden! It falls on me!"

She grabbed his wrists with shocking strength.

"You have to be king! You have to rebuild Ferelden! I'm...just some dirty knife-ears from the Alienage." She said ferociously, then turned, resting her forehead on the cool stone of the wall. She sighed.

"I've seen this coming, Alistair. They say the Dalish can feel the death gods coming for them. Maybe I've got some Dalish in me after all." Her voice was quiet again. Hoarse.

"What will you tell Zevran?"

She wheeled around, pointing a finger at his chest.

"I'm not telling Zevran, and you won't either! He'll...he'll try to talk me out of what needs to be done."

He couldn't believe what he was hearing. "You have to tell him!"

"If I can keep silent so can you, Alistair Theirin! No one will know!" Tears cut tracks down the dirt on her cheeks. "No one."

Alistair pulled her into him abruptly. She felt so small and insubstantial.

"You're my best friend." He said, his tears falling down and landing on the top of her head.

"And you are mine."

"I'll...I'll make sure he has safe passage wherever he wants to go. And you'll have a national hero's funeral."

"Good. You'll be a good king, Alistair." Her voice was muffled against his chest. He released her finally.

She wiped hurriedly at her tears, backing toward the door.

"I...Goodnight, Alistair. Sleep well. Tomorrow we save the world." She laughed, but it sounded hollow.

-

It was late when she returned from talking to Alistair. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face flushed.

"Maker, Lena! What is it?" Zevran had been pacing. There could be no sleep on a night like this.

She practically dove on him. She was shaking all over.

"Tell me you love me. You do, don't you?" Lena's voice was low, rough.

"You know I do. I have for some time, I think." He said very quietly, holding her gaze. Now he was shaking. It hadn't been so long ago that he was trying his best to slit this woman's throat. Then, rapidly, her life became more important to him than anything else. He knew abruptly that he did love her. And, to his surprise, it felt...good. No pit opened up in his stomach. No dread gnawed at him.

Her mouth met his, her hand coming up to tangle in his hair. He responded with equal urgency.

They made love like they never would again, which, given the circumstances, seemed likely.

"I love you too, Zevran." She said very quietly, laying in his arms. He just stared up at the ceiling, and beyond it, to the stars.

-

-

Denerim was in ruins. There were fires everywhere. The stench of rank darkspawn blood and burnt flesh was inescapable, and it made him wretch incessantly. Lena, Zevran, and himself fought their way back to Fort Drakon, wading through a tide of darkspawn and corpses. Somewhere, on the other side of the city, the rest of their companions were struggling to hold back wave after wave of creatures.

Lena was unhinged. Howling, she cut a bloody swath through the tower and into the staircase that led to the battlements of the compound, the dark blood pulling her forward towards the old god just as it called to him. Somewhere to his left in the cramped staircase, he heard a wet crunch as Zevran's blade impacted with something, and a howl as it clattered down the stairs.

"Maker! Where is she?" Zevran said, wild-eyed, his chest heaving under armor. His eyes not finding her, he bolted up the stairs. Darkspawn appeared in front of him as more surged up from below.

They fought their way to the top, and Alistair's breath came out of him in a rush when he saw it.

The archdemon. At last. Not just a dream-monster anymore, but here. It was huge, and the acrid odor of dragon urine and death were overwhelming. Its enormous head snapped around when they appeared and it roared at them, its hot breath driving them back, spittle splattering them.

They dove for cover as its enormous claws struck at them, then kept moving. More darkspawn were pouring from the entrance to the battlements, defending their god. Zevran hurtled past him, nearly a blur, his swords flashing in the wane dawn.

Finally, behind him, he heard her voice. She was shrieking at the enormous beast, and its attention went from them to her.

"Lena!" He screamed, charging toward her while Zevran waded into the army of darkspawn that were coming up behind them.

The point of exhaustion was long behind him. His muscles screamed every time he swung his sword. He didn't care. Lena was ahead of him, always moving, never allowing him to get too close. She struck at the archdemon when she could get close enough, her blades sinking into its flesh but seemingly never wounding it. It went on and on, snapping at them, spitting fire.

Seeing an opening, he leapt onto its side, driving his blade into its ribs with all the strength he could muster.

Shrieking, it threw him off. Time seemed to slow. He flew through the smoky air. He had wounded it. Its fiery breath spluttered then went out. He landed with a distant crunch that he didn't feel.

Then he saw her again.

Lena hurtled out from somewhere, her mouth open in a roar, sword raised high. The archdemon turned, seeing her. The sound of her armor crunching under its teeth was horrific. It picked her up in its enormous maw, but her arms were free. Howling like a banshee, she plunged her blade through its soft eyeball and into the tissue beneath.

It threw her, and her body moved through the air like a doll that had been tossed.

Something in the air shimmered, changed. Alistair had never felt the call of magic before, but around him, for the first time he felt the Veil shudder. The enormous beast thrashed spasmodically, its wings beating uselessly, its tail flailing. Then the huge head hit the stones of the battlement with a sharp _crack_, and it was done.

He was on his feet, but the left side of his body wasn't responding properly. His heartbeat was overwhelming in his ears, so much so that he could hear nothing else.

He didn't hear Zevran as he scrambled across the debris and corpses, himself covered from head to toe in slick black blood.

He limped across the battlement to his side, and abruptly, time began to move normally again.

Zevran had both hands on the enormous wounds that went nearly the whole way through her abdomen, where the archdemon's huge teeth had penetrated her armor. Blood had stopped pouring out around his hands when her heart stopped pumping it. Lena's eyes were open, huge and wondering to the sky, and her chest was still.

Zevran's sobs coalesced into something meaningful.

"...Wynne's potions! Now! Now!"

"Zevran, she's..."

"NOW!" He roared, thrusting out hands that were dripping with her blood.

Alistair emptied all of the potions into the assassin's hands. He poured them into her open abdomen, and the wounds began to crawl closed. He tore off her breastplate and brought a closed fist down hard on her chest.

_"Alimina vivare, Lena!" _He screamed brokenly, and brought his bloody fist down again on her chest.

Alistair was just moving to drag him away when something happened.

She breathed.


	13. Epilogue

Epilogue

When the archdemon was destroyed it broke the back of the darkspawn army. After that, their defeat was almost instantaneous—the soldiers of Redcliff and what was left of Denerim's forces rode them down as they fled the city. The Dalish hunted down what stragglers had made it into the forests while the Orzammar groups cleared Denerim's streets. The Circle Magi put out the fires, helped heal the wounded, and buried the dead.

Lena was unconscious for almost three days. They put her in her old room at the estate, and Wynne and the Circle Mages were at her side constantly. Alistair told her everything—Morrigan's proposition, and the reason why only a Grey Warden could slay an archdemon.

The Magi conferred, and finally decided that Lena's death at the same moment as the archdemon's was enough to force its egress back beyond the Veil. Moments later, when Zevran had forceably persuaded her heart to start beating again, her own soul returned, and she lived. It had never happened before, and probably could never be arranged again.

When Lena finally woke, the Circle Magi started back across the plains to their tower, and Wynne went with them. She told him to tell Lena that she was sorry, but wouldn't say what for.

The party dispersed as the plans for his coronation got underway, except for Zevran, Leliana, and of course Lena's wardog, who'd been following him around since Lena was indisposed.

The weeks went by, and Lena seemed to be slowly regaining her strength and humor. The three of them sat up late at night in the huge empty hall, listening to Leliana's songs and Zevran's stories, until the time for the coronation was finally upon them.

Leliana could not entreat, beg or otherwise convince Lena to wear a gown for the event, but she and Zevran both saw the official armorer that came to prepare the king's battle dress. Leliana looked resplendent in a burgundy velvet gown. Even Sir Digby had been thoroughly washed and painted in runes and traditional designs.

Representatives from the Dalish, the Dwarves, and the Magi stood amongst the people of Denerim to welcome him to the throne. In the front row, a smirking Zevran, a wan but happy Lena, and a weeping Leliana stood, unnoticed by his new subjects but of utmost importance to him.

Leliana departed at last, determined to journey back across Denerim to the final resting place of Andraste, then across the sea to seek new adventures.

Zevran announced that he and Lena were going to Orlais, where they had "better weather and better doctors, and more trouble to get into". He and Sir Digby saw them off at the docks.

The King waved to them until their ship disappeared into nothingness on the horizon.

* * *

_One Year Later_

Alistair charged through the seemingly ever-present crowd in the main hall. Eventually the chattering group of advisors, nobles, and support staff parted, and he saw who the "unexpected guests" were.

Zevran was chatting up an enormous sentry while Sir Digby bounded about at his feet. Lena was laughing with one of the elven servants who had a bundle of fresh-cut flowers in her arms.

The crowd scattered in the presence of the King, except for his old companions. Zevran laughed when he saw him, arms outstretched.

"Alistair! All the rich food and ruling has done good things for your figure, I see!" He exclaimed, patting Alistair's developing paunch. One of the guards behind him visibly blanched.

"Shut up, you skinny bastard." Alistair said, grinning, pulling him into a hug.

"Is that your official welcome speech, Alistair?" Lena's voice came from his right side. He pulled her unceremoniously into his embrace as well. Elves were small. He could manage.

At last he relinquished them. Lena and Zevran both looked sun-kissed and fit, probably a result of Orlais' gorgeous climate. They were still wearing their coronation armor, but augmented by an assortment of Orlisian weapons and odds and ends.

Lena's hair had grown back from where the archdemon had singed her, and hung black and glossy past her shoulders. Her movements were smooth and easy and the constant look of pain she'd carried after the fight with the archdemon had been replaced with what looked very much like her own version of Zevran's smirk. She looked like herself, in fact, she looked better than he'd ever seen her.

So did Zevran. A few new tattoos peeked out from under his armor, Alistair saw, and his hair was longer now and hung down his back in a thick braid. His strange honey-colored eyes held a genuine mirth he'd only seldom seen when they travelled together.

"If you were having so much fun in Orlais, what are you doing back here, then?" He teased.

Zevran shrugged, patting Sir Digby's enormous flank.

"Don't worry, my liege. We won't be underfoot for long. I thought I'd show Lena the place of my illustrious birth. And as it just so happens, your little country lies in between Orlais and Antiva."

Alistair laughed. "So you're professional travellers and trouble-makers, now?"

"Since you insisted upon killing all the darkspawn, yes. What else is a Grey Warden to do when there's no blight?" Lena said, grinning.

"So you're only just stopping in?"

"I'm afraid so, my good man. Our ship departs at dusk." Zevran said with a little bow.

He turned to Lena, extending his hand. "Shall we, my dear?"

She took it. "Yes, let's." She said.

Alistair watched the walk off together, hand in hand, for a moment, before Lena turned again.

She put her hand to her ear.

"Do you know what I hear, Alistair? Around every corner, calling out to me, disturbing my dreams?"

"Maker, Lena, what?" He stammered.

A grin spread slowly across her face.

"Absolutely nothing." She said, and they walked through the doorway and into the setting sun.


	14. Credits and ThankYou's

Credits and Thank Yous

My humblest thanks to the following individuals: Everyone who read AND reviewed this story, especially kiwibliss and Kikaimegami (for being especially encouraging and getting my jokes, respectively). Special credit should be given to my long-suffering husband, who listened to me fuss over this story (and all the other stories) endlessly and never once suggested that I should be lobotomized.

As promised, here's a list of "easter eggs" and other obscure references I felt the insane need to include in this tale:

Title: _From the Brothel to the Cemetery _is the title of a fantastic album by a fantastic band called The Tiger Lillies. Listening to it always reminds me of our favorite assassin.

Chapter 1: Lena's dog, Sir Digby, is named after a character invented by the British comedy team Mitchell and Web in their ongoing sketch, "The Adventures of Sir Digby Chicken Caesar". Sir Digby is a deranged homeless person on a quest. Just trust me on this one.

Chapter 6: The line "_When you get locked into a serious weapons collection, the tendency is to push it as far as you can_" is of course stolen from the great Hunter S. Thompson in his book _Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. _Except he wasn't talking about armaments.

Chapter 7: An obnoxious amount of references to the 80's movie _Weekend at Bernie's._

_ -_

Also: stay tuned! I have a story detailing the further adventures of the Warden and Zevran in the works. It will be rated M and more, erm, adult, so rejoice, adults!


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